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because things got off to a fine and dandy start with them, more or less. We were all smiles and bows at first, a regular lovefest in the making. After greeting me with “You—caw-hee [his best attempt at the word ‘coffee'] now,” Hizimitsu Takahashi and I would take our cups, seal ourselves in one of the conference rooms, and go to it. He was competent enough in the “Herro, how are you,” “Good morning,” and “Thank you velly much” phase, but at each new tongue-bendingEnglish word he would cock his head like a bewildered parrot. It was going to be tough, I learned early on, to bridge the cavernous linguistic gap between Occident and Orient. For weeks the salesman never progressed further in conversation than “My company bling me here” and “Tonight I go to Mah-hah-ta [Manhattan].” Damned near every utterance was prefixed with “my company.” It was my company this, my company that, until I reached the conclusion that my student did indeed regard his employer as a sort of supreme being or all-powerful deity—which was the Japanese way. The poor fellow needed some loosening up, I figured. So I did some research and came in one afternoon with a few choice items calculated to melt the ice between East and West.
    “Ah, my kintama” —testicles—"are itchy as hell today!” No reaction. Had I pronounced the word correctly? “I had a damned good asa mara “—morning erection—"you?” Nothing. And: “What do you think of American omanko?"— cunt.
    No response, only a half grin and a nervous push of the hornrimmed spectacles back up the bridge of his nose.
    The very next day, Mister Kimitake, my charge’s boss, phoned to inform me that my services were no longer needed and thank you very much.
    “But I thought you were going to use me through the end of the fiscal ye—” A click and a buzz. Another sinecure down the drain. No doubt the Japanese sense of propriety had been offended by my choice of terms for translation. Of course it was all supposed to be a lighthearted joke, but they weren’t getting it. Or maybe they thought I was coming on to the guy. Or maybe it was the fact that I’d not responded with sufficient enthusiasm to the seaweed crackers proffered as a snack whenever I came to work.
    They were a damned curious lot, those Nipponese pen hucksters. Tight and formal and inscrutable, they never betrayed a scintilla of what was going on inside their skulls.
    The upshot was that I was about to be as poor as a church mouse all over again. I didn’t worry much about it, though—I had Livy. Having Livy was like having an ace up my sleeve. I had a hunch she was going to save me.
    J ust before Christmas I hopped the train to Philly to visit my brother. When I got back a few days later and rapped on Livy’s door, it swung open with a vengeance.
    “I missed you,” she said, her eyes flashing with something like rage.
    “Yeah. I missed you, too.”
    “I don’t want us to spend any more time apart.” “That’s what I want, too.” “Are you going to stay?” “If you want me to.”
    “I only want you to if you really want me…. ” I grabbed her hand and guided it to my crotch. “What does this tell you?”
    And it was true. I’d done nothing but think about her from the minute I left town.
    “This is the way it has to be. Just me and you.” “Yeah. This is how it’s going to be.”
    Within seconds, we were tearing each other’s clothes off. Next day I moved the rest of my stuff in.
    Late at night Livy and I spun out elaborate plans for the future. We were going to be together. We were going to travel. The main thing was we were going to write. From the beginning itwas a given, a fundamental presumption—though neither of us was writing. Maybe when all was said and done we’d pack up and move to a sunny foreign country—Spain or Italy or Portugal (the climate for artists was sure to be more conducive)—but since neither of us had been abroad we were at a complete loss